Creating Perfection
by supertengyattack
Summary: After the Fall, Sherlock takes refuge in his old home. Haunting by the memories of John, he decides to make a Robot John, capable of feeling and such. Alas, you can't make perfection... (Johnlock?)


Author's note?: THIS IS MY FIRST STORY! *hides under my bed* I'm trying! Please tell me if I need to work on something or any errors! Thank you for reading this! Btw, have I told you, I suck? OH, and this whole story was inspired by this AMAZING picture! 850250 ITS AMAZING!

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Turn back the clock one year and Sherlock would have never thought that his life would end up like this. He'd imagine himself in front of a poor chap, blood splattered on his face like a Maasai Warrior. He'd imagine the out-of-focus police lights surrounding the fellow, the most irritating officers dashing this way and that, and the underlying clues that'd show themselves to him and only him. _Not_ attending his own funeral. "He" was positioned in a black sophisticated chest which dabbed with spots of rain from the grey above, dimming it reflections. The cross that was narrowly impressed on the apex of the coffin was deep and well smoothed. The blood red rosettes surrounding the raven colored coffin created a cliché depiction.  
The audience was surprisingly larger than Sherlock anticipated. From the mighty oak Sherlock spotted Mrs. Hudson, sitting in the far left, dabbing her tear-stained face with her handkerchief. Next, was the insufferable prick himself, Anderson. Going down the row was Sally, Molly, Angelo, Mike Stamford, some dedicated fans, reporters, so on and so forth. What really caught his attention was John, sitting in the far back, staring wide eyed at Sherlock's coffin; red eyes, light bags under his weary eyes, uncombed hair, tie not correctly knotted. He hasn't been sleeping well, probably tossing and turning and sometimes all-nighters. He obviously didn't long for the funeral; after all he did shed some tears before the event. This was the worst John had ever looked…  
The rest of the memorial was a blur, just depressing faces and such. Sherlock left early with a void in his chest. He gave a lousy attempt to shrug off the unusual feeling but it still lingered. Anthea stood against the rental car, waiting for the guest. She gave an uninterested smile when she saw Sherlock, and opened the car door. Sherlock silently hopped in the back, soon after, Anthea got in, took a seat next to the Holmes boy, and began to text away. 'My brother, probably.' he deduced. The car purred and began to make its way. Sherlock glanced out the window. His view was disoriented as if this was car was a time machine, traveling to the future. Time travel, huh? Could he really go back? His thoughts were interrupted as the car came to a halt.  
Not even bothering to wait for the woman taking her good time on opening the door, Sherlock evacuated the automobile. There, standing in front of him was his household. He hasn't been there in ages, it almost seemed alien to him. As expected, Mycroft was waiting at the door, fiddling with his black umbrella behind his back.  
"Ah, hello Sherlock." Mycroft greeted with his genuine sly grin.  
"Mycroft." Sherlock said simply.  
"How was the Funeral?" The elder brother asked.  
"Boring."  
"Was it now?" He pushed.  
"Yes, it was!" Sherlock clenched his hands into tight fists. The memory of John's sickly face impaled Sherlock's heart.  
Noticing his brother's mood, Mycroft went straight to the point. "You do remember your room, correct? The one left –"  
"Of the stairs, I know."  
"Alright, I'll leave you to it." With that, Mycroft nodded a goodbye, entered the car and within seconds left Sherlock alone.  
The young male pulled opened the wooden doors, presuming that his once bright and welcome abode began to wither away over time. On the contrast, it was the same to his childhood years. Mycroft must have tidied up. Unlike normal people, Sherlock walked over to his laboratory. Everything was intact just like he recalled. Mycroft took the opportunity to transfer all his equipment here from Baker Street. Sherlock picked up a recently polished flask but nearly dropped it for the memories evaded his head.

'"_John, look! I did it!" Sherlock shrieked. John, sitting in his arm-chair jumped at his flat mate's sudden voice. Without any hesitation, John burst off his chair and rushed to Sherlock, almost knocking down the mini circular table in the process.  
"What?" John yelled back, voice filled with excitement. Sherlock shoved a flask, filled with a small quantity of dark blue fluid, to John's face.  
"Ohhhh! Praise me! I finally made it!"  
"Made what?" John questioned, accepting the flask.  
"A liquid that would immediately purify a blood stained shirt!" Sherlock shrieked, as if he was a child boasting off a newly drawn portrait to his parents.  
"And why would you need that? We have bleach." John reasoned, staring into the flask. He could inspect little paper-like particles swimming in the liquid.  
"Just imagine, if the criminals had a hold of this!" Sherlock let out a deep chuckle. The ex-military doctor felt a smile tug on the sides of his lips.  
"That is extraordinary!" John complimented. ' _

Recalling the precious memory, Sherlock sunk down to the wooden floor, clutching the scientific tool to his chest. His heart felt like a rock thrown into an ocean; helplessly falling down an abyss, drowning in the merciless water, never seeing the surface


End file.
